


Sonant

by stuckybarnes



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Best Friends, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Relationships, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Josh is Sad, M/M, Past Abuse, Shy Tyler, Sleepy Cuddles, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Social Anxiety, The Author Regrets Nothing, joshler - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 07:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6507604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckybarnes/pseuds/stuckybarnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meeting your future roommate and life-saver in a quaint coffee shop at midnight was not the most interesting thing that could have happened, but it was definitely the best.</p><p>Recently kicked out of his own home and in need of a roommate, Tyler is tired, sheltered, and scared of his own body and mind. </p><p>Having left his home as soon as he could to pursue a future he believed in, Josh was living with a life-long friend, Debby, until their building was set to be demolished. Still working through his own anxiety, he finds a "roommate wanted" poster in a local coffee shop.</p><p>Perhaps it was luck. Or not. Perhaps it was time.  Perhaps it was every minuscule thing they've ever done that brought them together.  But, it was the best "perhaps" that ever happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Time

**Author's Note:**

> hello, frens. so, twenty one pilots have saved my life countless times, by given me something to believe in, by giving me purpose, by giving me something to create, that only i know.
> 
> similarly, this story will basically be tyler and josh making each other better people and giving each other some purpose.
> 
> this is a chaptered story, and it starts off as them becoming friends over time. it's not only sad, though, promise. This chapter is an introduction.
> 
> enjoy |-/

The interesting thing about time is its consistency. It is intrinsically flawed, because it isn't linear.   
  
Lives are made of millions and millions of moments - some meaningful, some insignificant. All these moments pile on top of each other, over years and years, until a person is made up of them. And these moments are very important. These moments make a person happy, make a person sad, make a person depressed, or even make a person hollow.  Moments could make a person wish they were dead, or make a person the happiest individual on earth.   
  
And that wasn't fair, either.  It is nowhere near fair that intangible concepts could mold a human being.    
  
The other incredibly interesting thing about time is its pliability. Time is moldable, in a constant state of flux. Constantly in an ebb and flow. One minuscule choice, one decision, could set the balance off and change everything forever.    
  
If the car was going slower. If the boy hadn't raised his music a notch. If the girl took a different route home. If that kid ran just a little faster on that particular day. If he wasn’t on his phone while driving.    
  
Or, in this case, if the night sky didn't bring violent thoughts. If blood was thicker.  If quaint coffee shops didn’t attract tired drummers.   
  
If people with blue hair and down-curved eyes weren't so kind. If depressed people didn't work in monotonous coffee shops. If the one with the scared eyes didn't always look so sad. If the drummer had his own place.  If the one who liked to sing didn’t get kicked out of his home. If confused people weren't drawn to each other.   
  
Isn't it obvious? Time, above all else, depends solely on  _ us _ .  Time is dependent on  _ us _ .   
  
That is why Tyler and Josh did not believe in fate. Not one bit.   
  
In the same sense, they did not believe luck is real, either. Sure, things happen. People win the lottery, run into the love of their life, avoid a terrible accident, miracles are seen. And people foolishly mistake that as luck. As fate.   
  
Naivete truly is the killer of all dreams.    
  
But it’s surely not because of “luck.” Nothing is because of “luck”.   
  
It’s about being in the right place at the right time. It's about pure coincidence. It's about statistics and ratios and odds.   
  
Everything that happens, every person you meet, every life you save, every accident you avoid, every future lover you bump hearts and scrape skin with - it is because of pure chance.   
  
The compilation of moments that made up Tyler and Josh’s lives didn't feel orchestrated. Nothing was planned or organized.    
  
And, really, if there was actually some higher power in the sky pulling everything along, they must be pretty damn sadistic.   
  
There was nothing particular about the choices Tyler and Josh made that led them to each other. But they were choices nonetheless, and they changed time.   
  
Josh’s family sheltered him from music - they wanted him to do something more with his life. They didn’t want him to drum, or sing, or skateboard.  They forced him into situations that amped up his social anxiety, and they didn't seem to care about  _ him _ , what  _ he _ wanted. They wanted him to be more like his siblings, even though he was the oldest. His family wanted him to go to college, and be a doctor, or a lawyer, or something, and so Josh ran as soon as he could, and never looked back.  

He got a small apartment with his childhood friend, Debby, because that’s what broke kids did.  Debby helped him calm down, and  _ stay _ calm, and work through his fears.  He got a drum set, got better, got good,  _ really _ good.  He even still spoke with his parents, at least occasionally. And, he got a job at a record shop, which made him beam with pride.

And then, they got a notice that their apartment complex was being demolished.  

And Tyler, well.  Tyler was a different story.  Tyler was not happy.  Tyler had never exactly been happy.  He was home schooled most of his life, until high school, and then he was forced into basketball, because he was good. No, he was _very_ good.

But, he was scared.  Tyler was scared of his own thoughts, of what his hands could do to him. He was scared how immersed in his own mind he could get.  He was scared of the dark, suffocating thoughts he could think up, like storms in his mind, wreaking havoc on his body.  And so he wrote.  He wrote journals and journals full of songs and poems, illustrating his nightmares and darkest thoughts, of his insecurities, how his mind seemed to choke him.  He wrote tales of his mind, and he wrote of his tell-tale heart, sheltered behind his cavernous ribs.  He learned the keyboard, the ukulele, the guitar, anything to keep him grounded.

And then, Tyler got offered a full basketball scholarship, and he said no. His parents screamed and screamed. His father tore the keys off his piano, his beloved rickety piano, and cut the strings of his ukulele, and  _ tried _ to burn his notebooks.  Then, Tyler screamed right back at them, told them that he didn’t want to be an athlete, that he’s been suffering for years without them noticing.  “I’ve had to wear a rubber band on wrist for the past five years just so I don’t feel the urge to die! And you never  _ knew! You never cared _ _!_ ” He had screamed, and then they gave him ten minutes.

They gave him ten minutes to leave, and never come back.

He’d been working as a barista for a year with his friend, Jenna, because he didn’t really need to interact with people for more than a minute at a time.  Plus, he made money, so it wasn’t as bad as being kicked out if he was completely broke. Jenna even let him stay at her place for two weeks, until her lease was up, and she had to move into a smaller apartment.

That is when Tyler had to find his own place.  He did find one, though. It was small, but not suffocating.  There were lots of windows, and even two bedrooms.  The living room was big enough for an actual sofa and table, and he even had space in his room for a keyboard.

Except, it was too expensive.  Tyler could pay the first rent on his own, but he needed a roommate.

So did Josh, though neither of these strangers knew it yet.

And yet, these choices of his changed things in the long run. They changed time. They always do.

So, yes, time and fate, if fate even exists, is directly correlated to what we do. What choices we make.   
  
  



	2. Sonance Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, frens.  
> this is an introductory chapter for ty, just showing you what he's like with people he's close to.  
> it's kinda sad but not too sad.

Tyler  darts across the street, giving a twitchy wave as a car slows to let him pass.  He bounces over the gutter on the other end of the street, slowing to a walk as his tattered vans hit the pavement, tucking his ukulele under his arm. The chilly autumn wind kicks up and scatters crisp brown leaves underfoot, and he pulls his beanie further down over his ears. He shrugs his backpack over his shoulder, his notebooks safely inside.

He opens the door to Sonance Coffee, the odd little coffee shop he worked at.

Sonance Coffee is a small, quaint place, fit snugly between a yoga studio and an instrument store. The aroma of dough and burning wood fills the cafe in a comforting manner. Dark wood paneling lines the walls and a fireplace is tucked into the back, crackling cheerfully and casting a warm glow onto the table legs. Mismatched couches, loveseats, and worn wooden tables are set around the room in an open display. Carpets are scattered around the room and all three window seats have cushions on them. Burgundy paint coats the walls and local art is pinned around the room. Coffee mugs, baking books, and small-business wallets are sold at the register for gifts. Cakes and sweets are sold as food. A large chalkboard hangs above the register with the day's specials written in bright colors. A pun is always incorporated into the name of the pastry of the day. Fairy lights border the walls and hang from the ceiling. Alternative music plays softly in the background.  A keyboard sits beside one of the sofas, and an acoustic guitar rests in the back room.  The cafe provides ultimate comfort for just about anyone, and encourages customers to stay and relax.

The one major thing that brings tourists and locals alike though their doors, though, is the musical aspect of the cafe.

The baristas can all sing - they’re all musically inclined, whether vocally or instrumentally.  Himself, Mikey, Gee, Patrick, and Pete, can all sing.   The employees were actually  _ encouraged _ to play or sing.

That’s what initially drew Tyler to working here - while he didn’t exactly enjoy singing his songs in public, he did enjoy being surrounded by likeminded musicians and friends.

It made him feel more alive, like there was something good, bright, in his chest.  He felt less alone at Sonance Coffee, which was a very good thing indeed.

Because, oh, does he feel empty.  He feels empty, and far too much all at once. He feels as though his mind is choking him, as if his hands are clawing at him, as if his own body is waging war on him.

But, music is good. He needed music.

Especially now, when he's only nineteen and forced out of his home two weeks ago.  And, now, even worse, Tyler has an apartment that's far too expensive for just him alone, and is in desperate need of a roommate.

“Ty! You’re early!” Jenna, his manager, greets him in a bone-crushing hug. Jenna's family technically owns the cafe, but they've collectively decided she knows how to lead the shop in the right direction.  Tyler beams at her, hugging back. “Hey, Jen.”

She pulls away, looking at him, her hands against his cheeks. “Are you eating? You forget a lot, and it’s really important -”

“‘M eating, Jenna, don’t worry.” He says.

That’s true, usually.  He doesn’t eat the healthiest, or the most often, but he does, in fact, frequently eat Taco Bell in the late night hours.

She watches him for a moment, hard gaze making Tyler chew his lip anxiously.  “Okay. If you’re sure you’re okay.  Well, go on, your shift’s almost starting.” She says, standing on her tiptoes to peck him on the cheek.  Tyler smiles brightly.

Tyler loves Jenna in the simplest and easiest way possible.  She’s his best friend.  She’s always there for him.  She never pushes him, or makes him explain himself.  She’s always there to sit up with him at night and buy him new notebooks.  Since childhood, they were partners in crime, inseparable.

Tyler walks hastily to the counter, removing his burgundy apron from a hook on the wall, looping it around his waist and smoothening the front until  _ Sonance Coffee _ was visible in bold black lettering.

Pete is already behind the counter, taking out everything needed for the day ahead, humming along to something underneath his breath.  Pete is… something.  Always energetic and more than a bit intimidating, but he was sweet.  

He’s humming softly, and then his words become more coherent, a dark, low song with an enticing melody.

_ "She says she’s no good with words, but I’m worse. Barely stuttered out a joke of a romantic stuck to my tongue…” _ Pete murmurs something under his breath, probably stumbling over verses he hasn’t yet written, before continuing,  _ “Why don’t you show me a little bit of spine you’ve been saving for his mattress? I only want sympathy in the form of you crawling into bed with me…” _

Tyler cocks his head in interest, leaning against the counter and snapping the rubber band against his wrist.  The song reminded him of a spark, a sultry dare.  Personally, he doesn’t write songs the way Pete writes songs; he was never able to do that.  But he loves it.  “New song?” He asks quietly, and Pete turns sharply to him, smiling, scrubbing down the empty tables.  

“Yeah… Dunno if ‘Trick will like it, though. How’s it sound?” He asks Tyler.

“‘S good.  He likes whatever you write. Plus, it’s pretty hot.” Tyler shrugs. “So, he’ll like it.”

Tyler wonders if anyone could possibly relate to his own music.  Surely people can relate to songs about love and sex and late night mistakes.  Sultry, dark, melodic music had a way of resonating with everyone.  But, Tyler’s music?  Music of a tormented mind that didn’t even have a clear genre? How could anyone relate to that?  Or, rather, who would ever  _ admit _ to relating to music so… visceral? Sure, Tyler’s music helped himself. Writing and screaming and singing is the greatest form of catharsis to him.  But, to others?  Tyler has no clue.  His thoughts choke him

_ Your music will mean nothing to anyone but yourself.  You will leave no impact on anyone. Your words, all your thoughts, all your music, _ **_~~it isn’t good enough~~ , _ ** his mind tries to tell him, to suffocate him.

At the strike of seven, Jenna comes out of the lounge to flip the sign on the door to  _ OPEN _ , and Tyler jolts out of his thoughts.

“Oh,” he yelps, remembering what he wanted to do, grabbing his backpack and taking out two fliers, scrambling to the cork board by the door and pinning one of the papers up.  Tyler examines it hesitantly for a moment.

 

_**(NICE AND CHILL) ROOMMATE NEEDED.** _

_**-Two bedroom, two bathroom.** _

_**-Sizable living room and kitchen.** _

_**-Working heat and water (!!!)** _

_**-Must be able to pay their half of rent on time.** _

_**-We don’t have to talk much if you don’t want to. I don’t talk a lot.** _

 

_**-Gender, race, religion, or sexual orientation aren't factors in choosing a roommate.** _

_**-Please don't be a prick.** _

_**-Please.** _

 

_**If interested, call 614-266-2845 to meet up and discuss.** _

 

_**(P.S. I sing a lot and stay up late, if that’s a deal-breaker.)** _

  
  


“This is dumb.” Tyler huffs at Jenna, who is wrapped around Tyler from behind.

“Nah, you’d make a good roommate.” Jenna assures, and Tyler turns to her indignantly.

“That’s a lie, Jen. I’d make the  _ worst _ roommate. Like, ever.  I’m weird. And I panic too much at night. I’m not social, so I’m not a good roommate. And I’ve got dark tattoos and I sing sad songs, and my head’s all sick. And I don’t like wearing pants, so that’s probably a no-go.”  He looks down at his feet somberly.

Jenna sighs, patting Tyler’s shoulder. “Yeah, you’re right, Ty.” She agrees, and Tyler turns to her, frowning. “But you might just find someone who likes you anyway.”

_ Yeah, right. She’s just saying that. _

She turns to face him, straightening out his apron and acting very much like a mother hen.  “You act like that’s all you are.  You act like the sad parts of you are the only parts. I know sometimes it seems like that, but you’re the brightest kid I know.” Jenna says, tugging on the apron until Tyler stops looking at his feet.

“Chin up, Buttercup.  You’re a dime. Also, maybe your roommate won't mind you in your underwear.”

Tyler scrunches up his nose in distaste, but he laughs. “You sound like a mom.”

“I am the best mom.”

“I’m older than you.” Tyler deadpans.  

Tyler leaves the poster up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all liked that.  
> next chapter will be josh :))))  
> follow me on ig: heathen.son


	3. Camisado Records

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello frens!!! sorry this took a bit longer, i wanted to get everything just right.

“I’m fucked.”

“Literally?”

“No, Brendon.” Josh sighs, putting his head in his hands.

Brendon Urie was one of Josh's best friends, aside from Debby. Personality wise, they were near polar opposites. Brendon was a ball of energy, always moving in some way. He comes off a bit strong at first; nobody knows exactly how to counter his endless exuberance. He’s honest to a fault and far too energetic for a man that small, but Josh loves him. Josh appreciates everyone at this little record shop, actually.

“Well, maybe getting fucked will cheer you up.” Brendon suggests, putting new records on the shelves carefully.

“Your priorities are shit, you know that?” Josh asks, but he can't keep the amusement out of his voice. Brendon grins at him. “I know. But you love me.”

“But seriously, I’m screwed. Me and Debby’s place is set to be demolished in a week. She found a small place, so that leaves me. All our stuff is still in the old place, waiting to be moved out. Are there even any roommates in Ohio that aren't creeps?”

At this, Dallon strides over, all soft eyes and kind smiles, dropping another box of new records onto the floor besides us. “You’ll find something, Josh, I know it.”

“Or, you could strip for money.” Brendon says, patting Josh’s shoulder.

“ _Brendon.”_ Dallon hisses.

“I couldn’t even do that if I’d wanted to! I’d choke on stage.” Josh groans, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Dallon puts aside the task of restocking the shelves to stand in front of Josh, much taller than him but resting his hands on Josh’s shoulders reassuringly. “You’ll find a great roommate. And they won't be a creep. And you _will_ _not_ have to strip for money.” Dallon says lowly, casting a glare at Brendon, who seems to shrink.

“If you have to move out before you find a roommate, you can always stay with one of us.” Dallon promises, pulling Josh in for a hug. “Yeah!” Brendon interjects excitedly, “There's always room for a bud at my place! I mean, Dallon’s my roommate, and Ryan’s roommate is Spence, so it might be a little cramped, but we’d figure it out!”

“Thanks, guys,” Josh hums against Dallon’s chest.

“Of course.”

Ryan Ross chooses that exact moment to walk out of the storage room with an arm full of records, and dark eyeliner. He’s humming an upbeat song, his voice smooth and bright and captivating. “ _Things are shaping up to be pretty odd. Little deaths in musical beds. So it seems I’m someone I’ve never met.”_ He moves about the store airily, his lanky legs carrying him effortlessly as he slides records into their allotted places.

As soon as Ryan appears, Brendon is instantly useless to Josh and Dallon. The musician’s eyes light up, scampering over to Ryan. “Hey, Ry, neat song.”

Ryan beams. “Really? I wrote it myself.”

“Oh, yeah? We should write some stuff together sometime.” And then Brendon’s smiling, and Ryan’s smiling, and they’re off to another side of the store, speaking quietly to one another while doing some semblance of work.

Dallon looks over to Josh again, frowns at Josh’s dejected expression. “Hey, kid, how about you go out and take a break. Get yourself a coffee - there’s a new place that opened up down the block, you can't miss it. I heard it’s, well, I think you’ll love it.” Dallon smiles, nudging the younger’s shoulder.

“Alright, I guess. Thanks. Want anything while I'm there?” Josh asks, slipping a beanie over his bright pink mohawk. “Nah, just take some time to relax, okay?” Dallon says, urging him towards the door. “I’ll cover you.”

Josh smiles then, ducking his head. “Thanks, Dal.”

“Breadbin and Ry, you two want anything?” Josh shouts, but the two boys are lost in their own affection for each other. Brendon doesn’t even flip him the finger for the nickname.

With a trace of longing for a relationship like theirs, Josh leaves Camisado Records. It’s a sunny day in December, but the wind is biting and the temperature is dropping with every passing hour. Josh ducks his chin under the collar of his sweater, keeping his eyes open for Sonance Coffee. He’s not sure where it is, but he does know that their small corner of Columbus has been getting more popular as of late - the record shop has been getting more business, and Josh is guessing that’s all thanks to Sonance Coffee for bringing more notice to the powers of music.

Two people pass by him, one with striking teal hair and a wide smile, laughing with each other. “I can’t believe they’re gonna hire me. Ty is such a neat little dude.” The blue-haired one says to the other, who smiles and nudges against him in affection.

The one with the striking hair is holding a coffee cup with the name Alex written on it. Across the side in a minimalist scrawl reads, _“Sonance Coffee. A chorus in every cup!”_

Josh smiles at that. He was too anxious to ask where the cafe was _actually located_ , and he berates himself. He finds it unfair and just a bit pathetic that in some situations, he’s wonderfully open and personable, and the next, in any open social situations with too many _potential_ variables, too many things that could _potentially_ go awry, he can become an anxious mess in the blink of an eye.

Josh walks another block, growing increasingly fidgety with each person he passes but doesn’t ask, until he sees another man with a Sonance Coffee coffee cup. He’s shorter than Josh, and looks to be about the same age. He has sleek black hair brushing his forehead and bright eyes, donning a lip and nose piercing. He looks sure of himself, but approachable, and the name on his cup reads, _“Frank,”_ with a heart scrawled next to it.

Josh wonders which barista did that.

The man makes eye contact with him, then, and before Josh can look away from his coffee cup, a surprisingly soft voice comments, ‘You’re three stores away. The sign is wooden.”

Josh’s eyes widen before he stammers to answer. “Oh, thanks, man.” He smiles slightly. Josh feels like, maybe, that guy understands.

Three stores away, huh?

He passes a crafts store, stickers and graffiti decorating the windows. One.

He passes an instrument shop, window art made from twisted guitar strings and clarinet reeds. Two.

He then passes a hot yoga studio, an advert of a woman bending in a way that should _not be possible_ posted on the door, steam covering the windows. Three.

In front of him is a fairly large cafe, the windows darkened for the purpose of ambiance. Fairy lights line them, though, which provides a softer atmosphere. Ads for local bands, lost dogs, and small art exhibits were posted on the windows. A vertical wooden sign is on the top of the cafe, reading in a neat scrawl, _Sonance Coffee. A chorus in every cup!_  
Josh grins in relief, opening the door. He’s met with the comforting aroma of dough and coffee, and warm air encircles him. There’s faint music playing in the background, but the sole source of noise is a timid blond man strumming a guitar and playing an upbeat song, perched on one of the sofas there. He wears a Sonance Coffee apron, but his voice filled the air with wonder, capturing most of the cafe’s inhabitants’ silent attention.

 _“Baby, you were my picket fence, I miss missing you now and then. Chlorine kissed summer skin, I miss missing you now and then… Sometimes before it gets better the darkness gets bigger. The person that you’d take a bullet for is behind the trigger. Oh, we’re fading fast. I miss missing you now and then...”_ The man trailed off then, scribbling changes into a notebook and playing the guitar chord again, humming quietly now.

Josh watched in awe at his talent and bravery for singing what was obviously an original song in front of a crowd. The lyrics made a shudder run through him, surprised by the story behind them.

“That was Patrick Stump with part of a song he’s workin’ on! Isn’t he awesome?” Another man said slightly louder, beaming eyes on Patrick. His hair is short and as black as his eyeliner.

Various people in the cafe applaud and whoop in agreement, Josh included, and the man pecks Patrick on the forehead. Patrick giggles, tucking the guitar beside the couch before getting up. “‘M taking my break now, dudes. Gee, you’re up with Mikey.” Patrick says, removing his apron and handing it to Pete.

“No, I went before you. Tyler’s supposed to be with Pete now.” Says a red-haired man in a window seat, who must be Gee, an array of pencils and markers laid out in front of him as he draws, seeming to be in his own world.

“Tyler?” Gee calls in a sing-song voice, not looking up from his drawing. “There’s a line, and no barista to Pete’s order-taker.”

There’s a shuffle, and from the back of the room, by the fireplace, a lanky figure wearing all black emerges. He’s about Josh's height and age, but he’s very leanly muscled, whereas Josh is more visibly so. He’s wearing black skinny jeans and a plain black hoodie. That must be Tyler.

He walks airily towards the counter, grabbing a burgundy apron and slipping it around his neck, rolling his sleeves up.

As he waits in line, Josh finds himself watching the boy. He has impish features, chestnut brown hair, wavy and fluffy. He has a pointed nose and brown doe-eyes. His face looks drawn but slightly amused, his eyes alight but cautious. He’s undeniably pretty, in an ethereal, eerie way. Yes, _pretty_ is the word.

And, yet, he looks sad.

“Next up!” Pete calls, and Josh jolts out of his thoughts and walks towards the counter.

“Dude, sweet hair! It looks sick.” Peter says excitedly, grinning wide.

Josh smiles brightly, feeling less tense already; he’s always felt more content around like-minded people.

“Thanks.” Josh says, and places an order for a Grande Americano, handing Pete a ten dollar bill and getting six back.

“Oh, and what’s your name?” Pete asks, halfway between the register and the cup dispenser.

“Josh.” He intones, and Pete quite literally shouts, “Grande Americano for Josh!”

Tyler jolts, cringing and wringing his left wrist with his right hand in a nervous gesture. “Jeez, Pete, ‘s not even that loud in here.” He complains, and Peter’s eyes widen, obviously regretting his decision.

“Ah, sorry, Tyler. Didn’t mean it.” Pete says, much more quiet this time, and Tyler fidgets with his hands for another moment before seeming to relax, grabbing a cup and getting to work.

Josh wonders why Tyler was so shocked by the noise. Surely working in a musical cafe had a fair amount of noise.

As an afterthought, Josh assumes that Tyler’s shock was anxiety based; constant noises, repetitive noises and movements are much more comforting than random outbursts. Perhaps he has anxiety, too.

Tyler working is somewhat calming. He's humming something under his breath, but Josh can't be sure of the words; he only knows that the voice is high and soft and sad. It's lovely.

Finally, Tyler snaps a lid on scalding hot black coffee, slipping on a cup sleeve. He stares at the cup for a moment, furrowing his brow and frowning in thought before looking up, in a bit of a daze, before locking eyes with Josh.

“Hey, friend, what's your name again? ‘M sorry.” Tyler says, and Josh stares like a deer caught in headlights for a moment, because _his voice is so sweet._

“Uh, ‘s Josh.” He stammers.

Tyler looks at him for a moment with curious interest before pulling a marker from his apron pocket and tipping the cup carefully, scrawling on the side before sliding it onto the counter at the other end of the cafe.

“Grande Americano for Josh.” Tyler calls in an airy tone.

There's a swarm of people around the counters, either ordering, _getting_ their orders, or talking to some of the baristas. Perhaps it's the lunch crowd, because even more people are filing in now, and Josh fidgets uncomfortably.

Upon seeing Tyler behind the counter in the faces of customers, Josh sees that Tyler, too, looks a bit frayed around the edges, blowing out a breath and trying to look _over_ the faces, rather than into them, to prevent worsening his nerves. “Don't make me crowd surf this coffee to you.” Tyler mutters, and Josh huffs out a laugh, pushing through the crowd of people and grabbing his cup.

“Thanks, Tyler.”

“‘Course.” Tyler pushes a smile before taking a shaking breath and addressing the crowd, parting his hands in a separating gesture.

Pete takes over then, putting a hand on Tyler's back and mumbling something that must be reassuring into Tyler’s ear. Then, Tyler ducks his head down and Peter shouts to get the crowds attention.

“Form a line, please. Our baristas are people, too, folks, please stop shouting and crowding!” Pete yells, and Tyler takes a step back, leaning against the counter, and crossing his arms, still not entirely looking into the crowd.

“What if they're mad? Or they think we’re no good? Or not good enough?” Tyler muttered, and Josh only half heard it, but could read the rest from his lips. Tyler looks more nervous, now.

Josh believes he understands, but it’s a bit different.

Josh made his way out of the cafe with effort, tossing in the six dollars in change, and another ten dollar bill, into a jar labeled, “Tip our baristas!”

As Josh exits the cafe in a hustle, he breathes out a relieved sigh. He wonders if Tyler is okay. His problem seemed not to be with the crowd itself, but with what the crowd might have been _thinking._ That the crowd might be judging him, believing he isn't good enough, choking him out.

Finally, he puts the coffee to his nose and takes a deep breath, smiling slightly. He looks down at his cup for the first time.

"Sonance Coffee. A chorus in every cup," is written per usual, but his name is written in an angular scrawl, with a music note beside it.

_Sonance is right, Tyler._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked that!!! 
> 
> don't doeget to leave comments and kudos!!
> 
> FOLLOW MY IG: heathen.son


	4. At It Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long. i didn't forget about it. i was in a worse place than usual and had to distance myself. 
> 
> i really like this chapter! hope you like it!

Josh has dyed his hair blue now. It's a soft blue. A _baby_ blue, Debby tells him. He likes it more than the bright pink.

It’s midnight the next day, the day after he went to the coffee shop, when Josh enters Sonance Coffee again.

He was packing up what was left of the disarray in he and Debby’s old apartment, and he desperately needed a damn coffee.

Midnight means the cafe is relatively vacant. The only people here are a herd of kids who probably aren’t supposed to be out this late, crowding around two small tables that have been pushed together. There’s two men at the window seat that Gee was sitting at yesterday, and one woman on her computer in the corner.

They're usually not open this late, but a local band was having a small event at the cafe, so they stayed open.

All in all, it was pretty tame for this hour, obviously.

Josh opens the door to the familiar chime of the bell, and a much more beautiful sound.

A lanky, tall man leans against the counter, organizing the coffee cups distractedly. His hair is dyed blond, and his eyes are emerald green. His nametag reads _Mikey,_ and he’s fully immersed in the stunning sound of someone practicing, vocalizing.

Josh turns to the source of the quiet humming, and Tyler is perched on the arm of the sofa near the fireplace, his legs crossed under him. The dim light and his long eyelashes casts sooty shadows against his cheeks. He has whiskey eyes and sand skin. He wears black scuffed boots and tight black pants, a low cut tank top and a floral kimono that seems far too big on him, the loose sleeves slipped low enough so that Josh can see dark minimalist tattoos on his arms. They are cryptic and beautiful and stark against his fair skin.

Mikey, so as not to interrupt Tyler, hisses at Josh, waving him over to the counter. Josh stirs, scurrying over to Mikey. “Sorry. It’s just - Tyler doesn’t sing much here. His voice is like nothing you've ever heard before, but his songs are sad, beyond sad, but good, and _unifying.”_ Mikey mutters lowly, taking Josh’s order of a grande Americano quickly.

“He’s so scared everyone will hate them.” Mikey concludes, shrugging his shoulders in a resigned gesture. He looks up at Josh again distractedly. “Hey, what’s your name?” He asks, not rudely.

“Josh.” He says quietly.

Tyler stops warming up and begins singing lowly as Josh waits for his order.

 _“All my friends are heathens, take it slow.”_ Tyler starts lowly, strumming his ukulele as accompaniment, and Josh is immediately spellbound. There is a twine string tied to the ukulele, tied at the middle of the body, over the hole, and one end tied at the very tip, in the middle of the headstock. It hangs around his neck. _“Wait for them to ask you who you know. Please don’t make any sudden moves. You don’t know the half of the abuse.”_ Josh shudders.

The melody is eerie and beautiful in his high, quiet voice. It is a melancholic, cathartic thing that sounds angelic to his ears. The lyrics are sad and telling of a traumatic past.

He repeats these lines once more, rocking slightly as he sings.

“ _Welcome to the room of people who have rooms of people that they loved one day, docked away.”_ He’s speaking more than singing now, his voice gripping, capturing the attention of everyone in the coffee shop. “ _Just because we check the guns at the door doesn’t mean our brains will change from hand grenades.”_ He says the line with a sort of finality to his voice, and goosebumps settle on Josh’s skin. “ _You’ll never know the psychopath sitting next to you. You’ll never know the murderer sitting next to you. You’ll think ‘how did I get here, sitting next to you?’”_

Tyler’s words tell a story, and Josh can’t help but stare.

“ _But after all I’ve said, please don’t forget.”_ His eyes closed and head tipped up, he sings the line high and airy, an ethereal tone that seems to come easily to him. Josh shivers.

He repeats the chorus once again, the world blocked out to him as he sings. The second verse is just as daunting, the story progressing, until he gets to the final few lines. “ _Why’d you come? You knew you should have stayed. I tried to warn you just to stay away. And now they’re outside ready to bust. It looks like you might be one of us…”_ His voice trails off pointedly in a bittersweet crescendo on the last word, and Josh takes a breath.

Mikey slides his coffee across the counter and Josh blindly hands him cash. “That was a new song, I think.” Mikey breathes, grinning.

Josh makes his way to an empty table away from the other people. He unzips his jacket, draping it over the back of the chair, taking off his woolen beanie and putting it on the table beside his piping coffee cup. He sinks into the seat with a sigh, watching Tyler.

Undoubtedly, that song is about mental illness. The song is unity in disunity. The song is a reassurance that those people are not alone, and that they are a special group. The song is the mutual and simultaneous togetherness and isolation of the tormented, the abused. It is a rallying cry.

Tyler’s eyes are downcast, his head ducked and body rocking slightly. His fingers are still barring the ukulele strings, strumming occasionally. Tyler still seems to be very much entranced, at ease.

Suddenly, after the song ends, a whooping holler and echoing claps break through the silence of the cafe, courtesy of the rowdy group of teenagers hoarding the tables.

Tyler jumps at the sudden outburst, his fingers twitching at the sound against his instrument.

The ukulele makes a shrill, discordant sound, and Tyler flinches, turning his head to protect his face.

“Ah, fuck. Not good.” Mikey whispers.

Tyler returns his gaze to the uke, his sad eyes trained on the three snapped strings, now coiled and useless. “Oh.” He mutters. The hand that snapped the strings is now tucked between his legs, as if worried he’d break something again, as if it were intentional.

Tyler looks absolutely exhausted because of this turn of events. He looks drained, his face drawn and eyes hurting for his broken instrument.

“I -” Tyler starts, swallowing thickly, pulling his eyes away from the ukulele. “Thanks, friends.” He hums quietly, dejected, nodding in weak appreciation at the tables that applauded. Tyler slides off the arm of the sofa and skulks over with dragging feet to the counter. He’s about to slip on his apron when Mikey touches his arm. “Hey, it’s late. Nobody’s gonna come in here anyway. Why don’t you sit down ‘till we close, huh?” Mikey says softly, and Tyler tries to read Mikey’s sympathetic face before nodding tightly in thanks.

He walks to an empty table, his lithe frame slipping into the wooden seat, his ukulele tucked under his arm before he sets it on the table in front of him. He just watches it sadly.

He sits at the table adjacent to Josh, though Tyler doesn't seem to notice.

“You can't just buy some new strings, Ty?” Mikey asks, and Tyler looks up warily. “Nah. The softer strings I use are over twenty bucks. The regular ones give me blisters. Can't spare that cash right now.” Tyler explains, and Josh understands the money shortage all too well.

He returns his gaze to his broken instrument, curling the frayed and torn strings around his fingers now, the tattoo on his wrist ominous in the moonlight.

Josh sips his coffee, relishing the warmth the cafe offers, a haven from the below freezing temperatures outside.

In a huff, Tyler takes his kimono off, his cheeks hot, and sets it on the table in front of his ukulele. The low-cut sleeves of his tank top show that his ribs are prominent, rigid lines of bone. He's scrawny, but not dangerously scrawny.

Josh could _almost_ believe that Tyler were simply born with a skinny frame.

Tyler looks damn near ready to scream, or burst into tears, but Josh finally works up to courage to say quietly, so as not to scare him, “Liked your song.”

“Thanks.” Tyler answers dismissively, as if doubting Josh actually liked it. He doesn't turn his head toward Josh when he answers.

Josh tries a different approach. “Did you write the song based on a particular mental illness?”

Tyler turns to him now. _Surprised_ is an understatement.

“Um. Mine, actually.” Tyler stammers.

Tyler doesn't elaborate on which mental illness, or illnesses.

“Cool.” Josh nods, inhaling the stark smell of his coffee before sipping carefully. “I liked the lyrics. ‘S kinda like a rallying cry, right? Like, acknowledging that you're different and isolated from the rest of society, but finding friends in the other isolated mentally ill folk.” Josh says lowly.

The boy says nothing, just watching him with a curious look, something akin to a smile on his rose petal lips.

“Am I right? Or do I just sound weird right now? Because that would be really -”

“N-no. Uh, you're right. You're actually right.” Tyler says, a bit in awe.

Josh cocks his head at Tyler’s surprised behavior.

“Sorry. ‘S just that nobody ever knows. They hear, but they just don't listen. Or, they _can't_ actually _listen._ They just can't understand.” Tyler mutters, and he clenches his jaw like he’s said too much.

He turns his body to Josh, but curls his hands in his lap, as if to still protect himself.

“That's okay.” Josh says, wrapping his warm hands around the cup to keep them heated. “That just means your songs will have a big impact on the ones who need it.” He says.

Tyler actually looks at him now. “I like the blue.” He mutters, gesturing to Josh’s hair, his voice soft. “It was pink before, right?”

“Yeah.” Josh nods, smiles a little. “Didn't think you’d remember every person who comes in here.”

“I don't.”

Josh frowns.

“I just remember the ones who seem nice to me.” He says quietly, returning his gaze to his lap.

They sit like that for several minutes. Josh nurses his coffee, cradling the large cup in his hands, one leg splayed out and the other jumping in a nervous gesture. Tyler sits with his knees together, his feet on the post underneath the chair, so his thighs brush the underside of the table. His skinny fingers worry at the makeshift twine ukulele strap, looking sadly at his instrument. His doe eyes are tired.

They don't speak to each other anymore; they just sit at their respective tables.

Eventually, Josh empties his coffee cup.

He stands, takes his cup over to the trash. He returns to his table and slips his thin jacket back on over his hoodie, zipping it up and tucking his hat back on. He's thankful for the warmth in his belly now, anticipating the cold walk back to his apartment.

Josh casts one last look at Tyler, still staring down at his ukulele, his hands between his thighs, almost protectively. He notices curiously again the slight back-and-forth rock to Tyler’s body.

Tyler doesn't say goodbye, and neither does Josh.

He tucks his chair in and heads to the front of the store, dropping all his change in the tip jar with a satisfying sound, smiling slightly at Mikey on his way to the door.

He doesn't know why he stops. Something must have caught his eye on the decorated bulletin board by the door.

A black and white flyer, calling for a roommate. It's a neat scrawl, somewhat comical in a desperate sort of way. There's no name, only a number and a brief description that Josh is more than satisfied with.

He plucks it from the bulletin, another copy behind it, and let's the door chime softly on his way out.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked that :)
> 
> tell me what you think!! leave comments!!
> 
> follow me on ig: heathen.son  
> tumblr: scruffydun


	5. Tidy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow!! two updates within a week apart!!
> 
> this one is a bit short but it's a really in-depth look at tyler's outlook on life and on himself.

Tyler wakes up with a gasp, his mattress buzzing uncomfortably as he grapples to find his phone.

Crap, what  _ time _ was it?

With bleary eyes, he unlocks his phone, not bothering to check who was calling. “H’lo?” Tyler mutters, sitting up on his mattress with shoulders slouched, legs crossed and hands in his lap. He rubs at his eyes tiredly, blinking awake.

He hates talking on the phone. Hates it. It makes him uncomfortable. It puts him on the spot, it’s too much pressure to keep up a conversation. He usually has to give himself a ten minute pep-talk, and plan out responses to every conversation variation he can imagine before he even  _ thinks  _ about picking up the phone.

“Hi. Uh, you posted an ad for a roommate? Is this the right number?” A muffled voice says. It doesn’t sound distinguishable to him.

Tyler perks up, eyes snapping into focus. “Oh! Um, yeah. Yeah, that was me.” He winces at the rasp of his voice, hoarse and grainy like it always is in the morning. “It’s a pretty sick place. Two functional bedrooms and bathrooms, and there’s already a lot of appliances that came with the apartment.” Tyler trails off, picking at the waistband of his underwear absentmindedly.

“Do you have any hours for visitors? Or, like, is there a way we can meet so I can check out the place?” The man asks, almost as though he’s imposing.

Tyler frowns, a hint of familiarity at the man’s voice.

“Um, yeah, of course. Tomorrow? Today?” Tyler asks.

“Is today too much to ask? I have to work tomorrow.” The man says quietly, a bit lamentably, and Tyler says that he understands, and that today works out fine, and gives the man the address of the apartment, scheduling to meet at noon today before locking his phone. He scrambles off the mattress and flips open his tattered journal, scribbling today _ , noon, roommate _ down before shutting it.

It’s ten in the morning now.

He spends the rest of the day cleaning the hell out of his apartment. He’d only been there a few weeks, and hadn’t gone around to unpacking. Perhaps it was over the fear that he would be forced out of  _ this _ home, too. Getting comfortable, daring to call something _ home, _ was a risk he was too wary of, now.

He throws on black joggers and a hoodie, and pennyboards to the store down the block and buys cleaning supplies, a small area rug, and a candle to make it look like he’s actually serious about living here. He can’t afford to splurge on anything right now; he can only buy what he needs until he has a secure roommate.

He shoves his mattress onto the low bed frame he brought from the old apartment, and pushes it against the far corner of the square room. On the same wall as the head of his bed, a few feet away, his keyboard rests under the window.

His actual piano was killed in his father’s rage, but the keyboard is only badly scuffed up.  After ruining his precious piano, his father reached for the keyboard, swung the window open, and let it fall. Tyler lunged, moved faster than he ever had in his life, and caught the keyboard.

He had no regard for his own life, hanging halfway out of a three-story window to save a measly keyboard.

His brother, Zack, had to rush in and grab Tyler by the pants to get him back in safely. His father had stormed out without caring what Tyler - or the keyboard’s - fate was.

Tyler clenches has jaw, snaps his rubber band to keep him focused on the reset, to keep his mind from straying too far from his body, and makes his bed, folding the sheets with neat edges.

Now that he actually has to present this apartment as a home to someone else, Tyler realizes just how barren his room is.  Bed shoved up into one corner, keyboard beside it under the window, a small desk from IKEA that brought him to tears attempting to build it, a set of drawers on the wall of the door, beside the closet. His broken ukulele was on the desk, a woven carpet was on the hardwood floor. That’s it.

He feels almost offended with himself, before realizing he doesn’t need much else. Clutter terrifies him, it entraps him, suffocates him.

He lights the candle on the living room table, fresh laundry filling the air, and he sprinkles an aromatic powder into the carpet until the apartment doesn’t smell like new paint anymore.

He finally hangs the fairy lights that were sitting tangled at the bottom of his suitcase, stringing them up in uneven streaks around the living room, lining the walls of his bedroom in luminous chords, until the apartment felt… softer.

He plugs in a lamp that’s been sitting untouched for two weeks, hangs the shower curtain, makes sure the possible roommate’s room is clean, and finally, some while later, collapses back onto his soft, ragged couch.

The prospect of waking up, like he does everyday, going to work every day, smiling every day, living in the weakest sense of the word, is infinite monotony. Pretending to feel okay, to feel alive, living a life where he pretends to feel right.  _ Lying, _ basically, in the hopes that one day it will stop being a lie, strikes something in him. Waking up every day wondering if things will be slightly better or slightly worse, wondering of today is your last day or one of many, wondering if today is the day he wall fall into his own mind, trapped, consumed.

He will never stop wondering if he killed the person he was, if he killed Tyler and was simply living in Tyler’s body, a deathly, spindly mind taking root in Tyler’s skill, torturous brain controlling his vile hands, choking him before lightening their grip, only to strangle him harder. A parasite. A murderer of one’s own self, arguably worse than murdering another person. How ashamed he is, that he let his old self die, drown, suffocate. His name isn’t the same, his own self isn’t the same, his body doesn’t feel the same, and oh, how shameful.

He jumps off the couch and settles again with his tattered yellow moleskine journal.

He opens to a new page, and scribbles something down. Two sets of things, actually.

_ He wakes up early today, throws on a mask that will alter his face. Nobody knows his real name, but now he just uses one he saw on a grave. _

On a new page, he writes something else. A desperate plea to his new self, to revive his old self, a frightening promise.

_ I will carry all your names, and I will carry all your shames. I will carry all your names, and I will carry all your shames. I will carry all  your names, and I will carry all your shames. _

He stares at those lines until his eyes are glassy, and then he hears a stark knock on the door. He jolts, bolting to attention, swinging open the door with no thought.

_ “Oh.” _   Tyler squeaks, his voice cracking, clutching his journal tighly to his chest as he stares at an equally shocked and confused man with blue hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOPE YOU LIKED IT :)
> 
> don't forget to leave comments and kudos!!
> 
> talk to me -  
> ig; heathen.son  
> tumblr: scruffydun


	6. Re-Re-Introduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all. 'm sorry this took so long. my head has been kinda not-okay, and i was focusing on the wrong stuff bc adhd. i'm back, though! hope you like this!

The two find themselves staring in surprise at each other for several moments before Tyler’s blinks comically, loosening his grip on his journal.

“I guess we should’ve asked for each other’s names.” Josh shrugs awkwardly, huffing out a small laugh.

Tyler’s chest feels tight, nerves haywire.  He’d met this man from his job at Sonance Coffee twice; he was nice to Tyler when others were loud and abrasive. Out of the one conversation they’ve had, Tyler felt that he was easy to speak to.

His voice was soft. Like honey. It was the color of cotton candy.  Josh had whiskey eyes and cupid’s bow lips, and he was very sweet.

He cocks his head, watches Josh’s kind eyes, his unassuming stance, before smiling slightly. “Guess so. Uh, well, come on in.” He greets, shuffling out of the way and gesturing for Josh to come in.

Josh’s eyes go wide, a grin on his face as he takes in the sparse apartment. Tyler drops his journal on the couch and shuts the door, fidgeting with his fingers as he anticipates Josh’s reaction.  _ He’s going to hate it. He’s going to think it’s pathetic, empty, like me. _

“Looks sick.” Josh says as he walks around the mostly empty expanse, nodding to himself. Tyler stands back hesitantly. He clears his throat and knits his brows.  “Really?” Tyler asks, voice querying.

“Yeah. It’s a nice place.” Josh nods, eyes taking in the space.

After several moments of Josh looking around the living room and kitchen, Tyler remembers he’s supposed to be the one taking charge and showing the apartment around. “Um, there’s one bathroom off the living room,” he waves his hand to his right, “and one bathroom in between our bedrooms.” 

Together, they wade through every room, even Tyler’s bedroom, and lastly the room that would potentially belong to Josh.  They went over every perk and flaw of the apartment, they discussed every noisy neighbor Tyler has experienced so far, and Tyler even disclosed that the neighbors to the left are especially noisy on Saturday nights. This made Josh laugh, a flush on his cheeks.

Twenty minutes later, standing in the empty bedroom, Tyler searches for any emotion on Josh’s face. “So? How d’ya like the place?”

“I like it. A lot. It’d be really awesome to live here. Plus it’s not too far from work.” Josh says, grinning. Josh doesn’t mention how interesting he thinks Tyler is, or how desperate he is for a nice place to live. “How much is rent, again?”

“One thousand a month; we’d split it between us evenly.” Tyler says, and he hates how his voice wavers and how Josh seems so happy and certain. He doesn’t mention how badly he needs a roommate, or else he’d have to beg to move back in with his parents, or worse.

“We’ll, if you’re down, I can move in pretty soon. It seems like a great place, and you’re not a creep. It’s a win-win, I’d say. Should I give you my number?” Josh asks, almost tentatively. Tyler blinks in interest before he thinks for a moment. It makes sense that they have some way to contact each other as potential roommates.

_ Nobody would want you as a friend, Tyler, this is just a  _ **_matter of business,_ ** a more grim part of himself says.

“Oh, right. Yeah.” Tyler says, before he realizes he doesn’t have paper. Josh realizes this too, and reaches into his back pocket to reveal a very beat-up pen. “I drum on tables with it.” Josh explains, and Tyler nods, tucking it away in his mind that Josh is a musician. Just like him.

He watches curiously, and then Josh reaches out his hand.

“Can I?” Josh asks, gestures to Tyler’s arm.

Tyler ponders this for a moment. He doesn’t like touch when people crowd him, but Josh isn’t going to crowd his space.  He extends his left arm out to Josh, and Josh takes it carefully by his wrist.

For a moment, Josh looks down at Tyler’s tattoos. He curls his toes and his jaw clenches, preparing for Josh to criticize the cryptic tattoos. He almost wants to pull his arm back against himself. But, if Tyler didn’t know better, he would say Josh looked fond, appreciative. Josh carefully rotates Tyler’s arm slightly, looking at the tattoo’s continuation of bands on his arm. Tyler watches him with a mix of awe and worry.

“Pretty.” Josh says softly after some time. Tyler watches him, raises his brows minutely in surprise. Josh looks back up at Tyler, remembering why he had his arm in the first place. “Potent tattoos. I like ‘em. My work is all color stuff.” He says, and Tyler smiles a bit crookedly. He’d like to see Josh’s tattoos, he thinks.

Josh clicks the pen and starts writing. Tyler focuses on the smooth drag of the ink across his forearm, until there’s a full number scrawled on his arm in boxy digits.

They take one last look around the place, and then Tyler is holding the door open with Josh standing in the hall.

“I’ll let you know by next week.” Tyler says with a tight smile, his fingers thrumming against the wood of the door.

Really, he doesn’t know why he said that; several people had called and came to see the place already, but they all either made Tyler uncomfortable, or were unhappy with the apartment. Tyler wouldn’t have to wait a week until he let Josh know - he already chose Josh. Everyone else was a definite no-go.

_ You’ll sound too needy if you tell him he can be your roommate now. _

Tyler ignores this thought.

“I’ll see you around the neighborhood, maybe? The coffee shop you work at is really sick, and you’re a great singer.” Josh says in a tumble of words, as if he was nervous about mentioning it.

_ Really? _ He wanted to ask.  _ You think my music is good?  _ Tyler then remembers the details of their previous conversation in the coffee shop. He remembers how Josh was able to understand that his song was about mental illness, he understood the message of the song, the audience he was desperate to reach out to. He remembers how surprised he was by Josh’s kindness.

“Oh. Thanks, man. ‘S nice of you.”

They shake hands, clap each other on the back. An awkward  _ goodbye _ late, and Tyler shuts the door.

Tyler showers to clear his head. Socializing with strangers is always especially draining and stressful. After work at the coffee shop, he can sit on the shower floor for an hour just trying to focus on himself. Surely if he got to know Josh, he wouldn’t have to shower and spend time alone to feel relaxed again. Like Jenna.

Two hours later, he narrows his eyes at the smudged remains of the ink on his forearm, and resolves himself to text Josh.

_ Wanna move in Saturday? -Tyler Joseph _

Tyler waits several minutes for a response, his nervous hands between his legs. He shouldn’t have sent that. He should have waited some time. He sounds needy now.

His phone buzzes then, and Tyler swallows thickly, revealing the illuminated screen.

_ Dude, hell yeah :D -Josh Dun _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked that!! 
> 
> DON'T FORGET TO LEAVE COMMENTS AND KUDOS!
> 
> ig: petr.prkr  
> tumblr: scruffydun


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